The Life of a Resurrected Man
by highflyer101
Summary: (Sequel to Life of a Dead Man.) After four months in hiding, Sherlock Holmes is finally free to return to 221B Baker Street. Better yet, he's able to bring the one good thing about his time in Scotland with him: Ainsley Boyd. Only problem? John isn't quite as welcoming as could be hoped. And England still hates him. S/OC. (Bad summary, I know. Read it anyways, please.)
1. Prologue

**A/N: Hello, and welcome to The Life of a Resurrected Man! If you read my other story, The Life of a Dead Man, please read on. If not, go read it! Nothing in this story will make sense without it! And then, if you like it (which hopefully you will), come back!**

**Disclaimer: In a cruel twist of fate, I was unable to secure the rights to Sherlock BBC. Apparently some idiots called Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss already have dibs. I do, however, own Ainsley. And Elsa. And Lucinda the cat. **

To the untrained eye, the man and woman entering 221 Baker Street were insignificant. They had no particularly memorable qualities; they did nothing to draw attention to themselves. Their clothes were modest and unassuming; their appearances on the whole were rather plain. In short, they were a pair of nobodies. Mere blips on the radar, if you will.

But if someone had bothered to look just a little bit closer, they would have seen that one of these nobodies was Sherlock Holmes, a man who was supposed to have committed suicide over four months ago. Yet here he was, totally alive and well, albeit with dyed blond hair. The other nobody, however, was a little less recognizable.

Her name was Ainsley Boyd, and she was Sherlock Holmes' second-ever friend and first-ever girlfriend. After helping to take down Moriarty's web of criminals, she had moved to England with her sister, Elsa, and her father, Patrick. At that exact moment, Elsa was resting in a hotel and her father was getting acclimated to the hospice he'd just been moved to, leaving Ainsley plenty of time to go exploring with her boyfriend.

"Exactly how do plan on getting in?" she muttered to him, taking a moment to examine the building in front of them. It was much less... dramatic then she had expected. Not that a building could be so very dramatic, of course. She had just thought it would be more noticeable or impressive, from the way Sherlock talked about it.

"With a key," he scoffed. She rolled her eyes.

"Right, because there's no way John and Mrs. Hudson decided to change the locks after everybody in London became fixated on their home," she agreed sarcastically. He flicked his eyes over to her.

"Of course not," he dismissed. "John's far too sentimental and Mrs. Hudson doesn't trust construction workers." To prove it, he plucked a key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. With a click, the door opened. "Ta-dah."

Without waiting for a response, he strode over the threshold of the building and began jogging up the stairs.

"Coming?" he called down.

Ainsley crinkled her nose, staring after him. It felt a bit weird to be barging into a stranger's flat. Sherlock may have lived there once, but that was a long time ago. Now, it was John's home. That meant it was filled to the brim with his personal items, and she was going to see it all without even meeting him.

Then again, Sherlock did still have a key. And the lease _was _in his name. Surely they weren't doing anything wrong. Besides, John would understand. In fact, he would probably greet them with open arms. After all, his best friend was coming home after months of playing dead.

Before she could change her mind, she charged up the stairs and followed Sherlock to the door marked 221B. Pulling out another key, he unlocked it. It swung open with an ear-splitting creak. She half-expected someone to come running in, asking who they were, but the building stayed silent.

"Where is everybody?" she asked, subconsciously lowering her voice to avoid disturbing the peace. It was understandable that John had things to do, but she'd always imagined Mrs. Hudson as an omnipresent force, flitting around the flat and making sure it was up to snuff.

"John's at work, I expect," he shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson's probably gone to the store. But it's not important. All that matters is that we're in." He flicked on the light, grinning wildly. She peeked behind him and took in the mess that was 221B.

The floor was littered with old newspapers and various articles of clothing. There was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, and that wasn't even counting the cereal bowl, mug, and plate that had been left on the coffee table. For some godforsaken reason, his old skull was still displayed proudly on the mantelpiece. Huge cardboard boxes filled with junk were piled by the back window. Ainsley guessed that the contents had once belonged to Sherlock and no one had gotten around to getting rid of them. She felt a stab of pity. She knew firsthand how hard it was to clean out a loved one's room. She shivered, remembering the horrible days she spent going through her mother's belongings. Shaking away the memories, she refocused on the room in front of her. Despite the mess, the flat itself actually wasn't too bad. If someone would bother to clean it up, it might actually be fit to live in.

"It's nice," she remarked, nodding approvingly.

"Of course it's nice," he spat. "I _lived_ here." She shot him a wry look.

"Sherlock, we all know your definition of 'nice' does not align with the rest of the world's," she sniped, thinking back to his dingy one-bedroom in Edinburgh. He ignored her and flopped onto the couch.

"Ah, it is good to be home," he sighed contentedly.

She smiled to herself at his excitement and began examining the photographs placed on the mantel. Practically all of them were of the famous crime-solving duo, Holmes and Watson - it was almost like some sort of shrine to the past. For most of them, Sherlock wasn't smiling, but that was to be expected. He would never smile just because he was getting his picture taken. John, on the other hand, looked like a relatively happy man. At least, he was able to muster up a grin at Christmas time. He was short, but not _too _short, and had thick blond hair. It would appear his fatal flaw was an addiction to jumpers. The elderly woman lurking in the background of the photos had to have been Mrs. Hudson. She smiled to herself. The landlady looked sweet.

Absentmindedly, she tried to imagine who the other people in the pictures were. There was a mousy brunette who looked perpetually nervous. She was in the Christmas picture, so she must have been fairly good friends with the two. Ainsley noticed her smiled looked a little forced in that photo, probably because of something Sherlock said. A man with salt and pepper hair appeared fairly often. He looked vaguely official in his spotless suit. Maybe he worked at Scotland Yard, she mused.

"I have to say, the fact that John still hasn't disposed of my things is a bit concerning," Sherlock frowned, eying the boxes filled with syringes and test tubes.

"At least you know you're missed," she pointed out, picking up another picture. She chuckled to herself at the sight of him in a deerstalker. "Did you actually wear this?" At the speed of light, he had moved to look over her shoulder.

"I wore it _once," _he sneered. "Some paparazzi turned up at the site of a case and I needed a disguise."

"And you chose _this?" _she cackled, raising an eyebrow at him. "Sherlock, it's a hat; that hardly constitutes a disguise."

"It was the only option," he insisted. She smirked.

"No," she taunted. "I think you just wanted to look really cool and dramatic, with that turned up collar and fancy hat-"

She was interrupted by someone slamming the door very, _very _forcefully.

"Right," a furious voice growled. "Who the _hell _are you, and what the _fuck _are you doing in my flat?"

"Shit," Ainsley breathed. It would appear John didn't recognize Sherlock with blond hair and thought they were actual criminals. Slowly, she spun around to face him, expecting to see the man in the pictures.

Instead, she found herself looking down the barrel of a gun.

**A/N: Cliffhanger! (Kind of.) Ainsley meets John! (Kind of.) What do you think of the prologue? It will get more interesting later, but it's always hard to write the beginning of a story. I think I'll start doing some chapters from Ainsley's perspective, like this one. Would you want to read that? Review, please!**


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: WHOOPS! I uploaded the wrong chapter. Here's the right one... Thanks for letting me know, POPPY.0!**

There were a few ways Sherlock had imagined John greeting him when he finally returned. Maybe a handshake, maybe a slap on the back, perhaps even a hug. What he definitely did _not _expect was to be held at gunpoint as an intruder.

John's face was tomato red, his finger curled steadily around the trigger. His eyes jumped from Ainsley to Sherlock and back again, trying to calculate what their next move would be.

"Look, I don't know what paper you two work for," he ground out. "But you have to be really desperate to break into my flat. So I'll give you one chance to leave before I call the police." No one moved. "Do you _want _to go to jail?" he demanded, looking ready to explode.

"John," Sherlock began, sounding amazingly calm. "Calm down. It's me. It's Sherlock." John's eyes widened and he stiffened for a moment. Then, in a flash, he was back to being angry.

"You are one sick human being, impersonating a dead man," he snarled.

"I'm not _dead-"_

"I watched Sherlock Holmes jump off a roof!"

"Ah, but you _didn't!" _Sherlock insisted. "A bike knocked you down, remember? You didn't actually see anything-"

"There were other witnesses!" John shouted, before taking a step back and laughing bitterly. "I don't even know why I'm having this conversation with you; you've clearly lost it-"

"You've lost seven pounds since we last met," Sherlock blurted out. John jumped in surprise.

"W-what?"

"You miss the army more than ever now, but you've distracted yourself from it by picking up extra shifts at the hospital. You stopped taking appointments and switched to the ER in the hope that things would be more exciting. It doesn't matter, though; you're still bored. You used to go on dates, but you stopped for the same reason you don't talk to your coworkers: everyone thinks you're mad for being my friend." Sherlock tilted his head slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I promise you, you're not, John. You were right all along. Moriarty was _real, _and I left to stop his partners from carrying on his legacy. But I finished, and now I've come back. I just have blond hair as part of my disguise."

"H-how... You couldn't possibly figure that out just now," John gulped. "You- you've been spying on me, or something. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"The seven pounds was easy," Sherlock said automatically, launching into his explanation. "That's an old jumper, and it always fit you perfectly. Now, though, it's baggy. Not baggy enough for a drastic change, but baggy enough to be noticeable. Seven fits. You're starting to hold yourself like a soldier again, so you obviously miss the army, probably because you crave danger and it's the easiest way to get it. Since you can't enlist again, you've been doing what any normal human being would do and turning your attention to something else; you don't have any notable hobbies, so work would make the most sense. There are bags under your eyes, so you've been up late at night. This could either mean you can't sleep, or have been doing something that requires you be ready at a moment's notice, like working in an emergency room. Your hands are steadier and stronger now, like you've been working with something delicate. This points to surgery, and the ER is looking good.

"I know you, so I know you're always trying to get a date, God knows why. My 'death' wouldn't stop you. But a girlfriend would encourage you to tidy up the flat, which you obviously haven't done. In fact, any friend would tell you it's a mess. So you clearly haven't gotten close enough to anyone to invite them over. Why? Well, Scotland has newspapers too, John. I know what everyone thinks of me, and you're guilty by association. You hate that people are so judgmental, so you've stopped spending time with them. Is that enough proof for you?"

John looked away, muscles still not relaxed. He inhaled deeply, preparing to speak. The air crackled with tension as Ainsley and Sherlock waited with bated breath to hear what he would say.

"It's really you?" he said finally.

"It's really me," Sherlock confirmed. John smiled happily at him, and for a moment, it seemed like the two would just revert back to being inseparable.

...That was until John wound back his fist and swung it into his best friend's face. Ainsley gasped as Sherlock doubled over, clutching his cheek. Meanwhile, John simply rubbed his sore knuckles, glowering cruelly at the detective.

"You're unbelievable," he hissed. "You put me- you put _Mrs. Hudson, _through months of torture so you can go off and have a holiday? And 'stopping Moriarty's partners', what does that even _mean, _Sherlock? How is that any different from what we were doing right here? Did you think I was too incompetent to handle the pressure?"

"I-"

"And who the hell is this?" he ranted on, jabbing his thumb at Ainsley. "I suppose you figured your best friend couldn't take Moriarty, but some random Scottish woman could. And now you've come back and just let yourself into _my _flat? You know, that is just like you, Sherlock: you think everyone's simply going to wait for you, because you're Sherlock Holmes, the genius! Well, guess what? I was still here, after you left! Everyone was! Do you know that everyone who ever even spoke to you was hounded by reporters for weeks, and then labelled a lunatic follower of the fraud detective?"

"That's better than what could have happened to you," Ainsley pointed out, the words tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them. He glowered at her.

"And that would be?" he prompted snidely.

"Torture," she said bluntly. "Or death."

"It must have been some pretty weak torture if you came out unscathed," he huffed.

"That's because my sister was tortured instead," Ainsley explained, face devoid of all emotion. "She was pregnant, too. But not anymore." John looked horribly uncomfortable. He fidgeted restlessly, avoiding her eyes. "And Moriarty killed my mum and put my dad in a hospice, too. That had nothing to do with Sherlock, I'll give you that, but I think that gives you a pretty good idea of how vicious these people were.

"And Sherlock Holmes, the man famous for caring about _nobody, _cared for you enough to spare you from that," she continued. "So I'd be a little nicer about it. Because a couple of annoying reporters is _nothing _compared to what my family went through."

After her grand speech ended, the room was silent. Sherlock glanced at her from the corner of his eye, unsure of what to feel. On one hand, she seemed to have calmed John down nicely. On the other, Ainsley was usually strong as steel, not breaking for anyone. It was jarring to watch her put her entire life on the table.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," John said politely in a clipped tone. She nodded appreciatively. "If you don't mind my asking, how did you get involved in all of this?"

"I got mixed up with Moriarty in university," she shrugged. "It was a mistake. When I figured out who Sherlock was, I decided I wasn't going to let that man ruin anymore lives."

"Now that it's done, what brings you to England?"

"Better care for my dad. Therapy for my sister." She glanced at Sherlock. "We're also, um... involved."

"What Ainsley means is that she is my girlfriend," he intervened, oblivious to John's awestruck expression. "Can I take your civility as forgiveness?" The doctor assessed his old friend before replying.

"No," he grunted, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but no." He hesitated, noticing Sherlock's miserable reaction. "You're welcome to stay for some tea though," he added. "And you two can explain to me exactly what is going on."

**A/N: Maybe not the best chapter, but the next one will definitely be better! I just need to get used to writing for John, lol. Review please!**


	3. Chapter Two

Tea was awkward, to say the least. Sherlock and John stared each other down from across the table while Ainsley sipped at her cup uncomfortably. The atmosphere was boiling with tension, and it was hardly helped by the incessant shrieking of the kettle. (John told them he'd been meaning to get a new kettle for months, as this one was beyond broken.)

"I suppose you have some questions," Sherlock prompted unfeelingly. John rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, just a few," he snapped. "For instance, how are you not dead?"

"Oh, John," Sherlock sighed. "I'd nearly forgotten how simply your little mind works. You'd be amazed at how handy it is knowing people who work at the morgue. It really makes it so much easier obtaining a corpse."

"Wha- you mean _Molly?" _

"Of course I mean Molly," he scoffed. "Who else would _voluntarily_ help me?"

"I would have helped you," John pointed out quietly. Sherlock grunted, ignoring the underlying sentiment.

"Yes, John, but you don't have access to the bodies of young men with curly brow n hair and blue eyes," he shot back. "Molly does. As usual, you chose to ignore the fact that I 'died' directly outside a hospital filled with hundreds of dead people. It really wasn't difficult to dress one of them in my clothes and toss it out the top window."

"Alright, but- but you _jumped, _I saw you jump. No one can survive that drop, at least not without needing serious medical attention."

"Exactly, John. I jumped, but I didn't drop."

"But... that's not possible."

"Oh, I assure you, it is. Do you remember the Black Lotus?" John frowned.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he demanded.

"The climbing, John," Sherlock growled. "Getting in and out of buildings without leaving a trace. Seemed impossible, didn't it?"

"Well, yeah-"

"But it wasn't. Particularly not at a building like St. Bart's. The design of the windowsills make it quite easy to find a foothold. I simply slipped into a bathroom."

"Someone would see you."

"No. People tend not to put the pieces together when something tragic happens. They saw a man going through a window and then what looked like the same man falling, but that wouldn't make sense. To cope with the confusion, their minds eliminated the most problematic aspects of it all and remembered what the papers told them to remember: Sherlock Holmes committed suicide," he rattled off.

"And inside? How did you stop people fro m seeing you then?"

"I specifically planned to go into the visitors' bathroom in the ICU. Presumably , patients in the ICU would be dying, so their visitors wouldn't dare leave for something as trivial as the bathroom . I t hen dyed my hair blond, and, as you recently found out, I look quite diff ere nt with blond hair."

"So then you just... left? Without telling anyone?" John pressed, trying desperately to sound nonchalant.

"Yes. I went to Scotland," Sherlock shrugged. "Using Mycroft's ID card I was able to make myself a UK ID fairly easily . As such, I wormed my way into Scotland , where I had a smaller chance of being recognized. There, I met Ainsley. "

"Right. The girl who finally convinced you to have a normal relationship." John paused, cocking his head. "And how, exactly, did that happen?"

"She knew about Moriarty and she wanted to help me," he explained.

"So then you just... decided that she was different from every other girl you know?"

"Yes." He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you'd be pleased John. You know, about me feeling normal human emotions."

"Pleased? Yeah, I'm thrilled. I guess I just thought you'd be a bit more focused on stopping the world's greatest criminal ring," John sneered bitterly. Ainsley glared at him.

"What, you're the only person he's allowed to work with?" she sniped, speaking for the first time since they sat down. "You're a bit old to get jealous, aren't you?" John looked like he'd been shot.

"You think I'm jealous," he repeated dumbly.

"Yeah, I do."

"I can't be angry that my best friend deserted me?" he demanded.

"I'm sure you're angry too," she admitted, holding her hands up in surrender. " But you're definitely upset about the fact you're no longer his only friend. "

"Well, thank you for the analysis, but I don't need a therapist," he hissed.

"Really? I thought you were seeing one?" she asked, puzzled.

"Excuse me?" John snapped. "That is extremely personal information."

"Not really," she contradicted. "It was on your blog."

"You read my blog?" he growled.

"Yeah," she shrugged. "It's how I figured out who Sherlock really was."

"I didn't think anyone read that anymore ," he muttered, crossing his arms uncomfortably.

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock chided. "If you put something on the internet, someone, some_where _will read it. Where do you think all those reporters got their information?"

"Well, even they've started to back off, " he defended. Frowning, he glanced up. "That'll change soon, though, I suppose . "

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock wondered.

"The fact that you've magically come back from the dead," John pointed out incredulously.

"Oh. Right."

"Anyway," Ainsley sighed. "You can relax. I'm not here to steal your thunder, or anything. My sister's doctor recommended we come here and there's much better care for my dad. Plus, I might actually be able to get a job here." She smiled brightly, not noticing John's confusion .

"Why wouldn't you be able to get a job in Scotland?" he asked cautiously.

"Oh, I probably could find something at a crappy cafe if I really wanted to," she conceded. "But it's just difficult. I'm a convicted criminal, you see." John's jaw dropped.

"Lovely," he mumbled. "Absolutely brilliant. You're dating a convict." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really John, even I can see she's playing with you," he groaned. "She was arrested for trespassing - _just _trespassing, even though Moriarty demanded she kill a man."

"Wait, Moriarty-"

"Yup," Ainsley confirmed, guessing the question before it was asked. "He tried to get me in on his little club. And when I refused, he cut my parents' brake line. After that, we never spoke again. Well, until I started helping Sherlock and his cronies kidnapped my sister, causing her to lose her baby in the process, and actually knocked out this one." She jerked her head at Sherlock.

"Is- is that true?" John sputtered.

"I'm afraid so," she nodded sadly. "And _that _is why you definitely shouldn't be jealous of me."

"I see."

John didn't say anything more, knowing it wouldn't do any good anyway. He cleared his throat awkwardly. Ainsley was, indeed, correct: he may have been the tiniest bit jealous of her. Not of her and Sherlock's romantic relationship, of course, but just that she'd gotten to solve crimes and go adventures with his best friend while he spent his days dodging reporters on the dreary London streets.

"Not that I'm not thrilled that you two are getting along," Sherlock interrupted. "But we'd better prepare some smelling salts. Mrs. Hudson will be walking through the door inthree, two... _one."  
_

"Sherlock!"

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait and kind of crappy update. I just got a new puppy (!), and that doesn't give me much time to write. Hopefully you like this chapter despite my own mixed feelings about it and think John's still in character. As always, reviews are much appreciated!**


	4. Chapter Three

Mrs. Hudson was unnaturally pale. She looked like she'd just seen a ghost - which, in her mind, she had. Her eyes wandered from Sherlock to Ainsley to John and back again, widening with each glance. Sherlock briefly wondered if she was going to faint.

"It's alright, Mrs. Hudson," he soothed gently. "I'm here."

"That's the point, Sherlock," John reminded him through gritted teeth. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Oh- oh my... What... What in Heaven's name is going on?" she breathed, placing a hand over her heart.

"I can explain everything," Sherlock promised. "Trust me." The old woman jumped, as if she'd just realized that a supposedly dead man was talking to her. She looked woozier than ever.

"Perhaps someone should get her a chair?" Ainsley suggested, concern etched on her face. Mrs. Hudson seemed nice enough, but was obviously a bit more frail than John. So clearly, the shock of a ghost in her building would be hard to handle. Without waiting for a response, she ushered the landlady onto the couch and offered her her own untouched cup of tea.

"Thank you, dearie," Mrs. Hudson gulped, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock. Suddenly, she started, turning to look Ainsley in the eye. "Who on Earth are you?"

"Um, my name is Ainsley and I'm Sherlock's girlfriend," she explained briefly. "But we can get into all that later."

"But- but... But you can't be his girlfriend! Sherlock's dead!" the woman protested stubbornly. Ainsley exchanged a glance with her boyfriend.

"Not exactly," she responded, biting her lip nervously. The stress of moving to a different country was beginning to wear on her and she wasn't sure if she could cope with another big reveal, especially after John's explosive reaction. After all, there wasn't exactly a handbook for this sort of thing. "He, um, didn't _actually _jump off the roof of that building."

"But John _saw _him," Mrs. Hudson insisted. "John wouldn't lie to me."

"Yes, well..." Ainsley glanced at John and Sherlock for help. When neither of them stepped in to enlighten the old woman, she decided to take matters into her own hands. "Maybe it would be easier if Sherlock told you," she finished.

"He's dead!"

"Mrs. Hudson, it would serve you well to keep quiet until I have informed you of all the facts," Sherlock deadpanned. Mrs. Hudson shut up immediately.

"As Ainsley said, I did not actually commit suicide," he continued. "You are, however, completely correct that John would not lie to you. In fact, until about two minutes ago, he too was under the impression that he had watched me throw myself off of the roof of St. Bart's Hospital.

"In reality, what he saw was a mere decoy. While you all believed me to be dead, I was really in Scotland taking down the last of Moriarty's colleagues. During this time, I met Ainsley, who, as you can see, is here with me now. Any questions?" Mrs. Hudson stared up at him in awe, her expression switching from one of anger to one of joy.

"How?" she finally blurted. He groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Irrelevant," he dismissed. "If you really must know, ask John. He should be able to tell you the details."

"Sherlock," John scolded. "It's a perfectly reasonable question."

"And it's a perfectly reasonable answer," he shrugged. "At the moment, we have far more interesting things to discuss. For example, what state is 221C in?"

_"That's _more important than how you faked your own death?" John demanded incredulously. Sherlock frowned.

"Of course," he said. "Ainsley needs to know what it's like if she's going to be living there."

"She's going to be living here?!" John shouted without thinking.

"Where would you prefer her to go, the streets?"

"Well- but- I mean..." John couldn't think of what to say. It was illogical to be this flustered, of course, but 221 Baker Street was always his, Sherlock's, and Mrs. Hudson's place. He couldn't imagine Ainsley fitting in.

"It's really just a suggestion; I'll probably find another place anyways," Ainsley backtracked, embarrassed to be causing such a feud.

"Don't be silly. The rent here is considerably lower than the rest of the flats in this area and Mrs. Hudson will doubtlessly enjoy your company. Besides, you can't be too far away if you're going to help with the cases."

"The- the cases?" John uttered emotionlessly.

"Obviously she's going to be helping us from now on," Sherlock sneered.

"Right. Yeah. How could I forget," John muttered. "She's your girlfriend."

"Yes. She is."

A tense silence followed, interrupted only by Mrs. Hudson's shallow breaths. It was quickly becoming clear that John and Sherlock would never again be _JohnandSherlock. _There would forever be a barrier between them; a layer of broken trust. And Sherlock, typically oblivious to anything remotely social, probably wouldn't even try to bridge that gap. To him, it was simply a natural change. It would never occur to him that he had done something particularly hurtful by letting someone into their sacred routine.

"Look, John, no need for you to get your knickers in a twist," Ainsley tried again. "Not only is your jealousy ridiculous-"

"I'm not jealous!"

"-it is also completely unnecessary. Great as all that... _living here _stuff sounds, I have a sister. And a cat. And I'm sure a building like this is no-pets, so..."

"Please, Mrs. Hudson doesn't have enough of a backbone to ban pets. Besides, _she_ used to have a cat."

"H-how could you know that?" Mrs. Hudson whimpered. "We've only just met!"

"I. Am. Sherlock," Sherlock insisted through gritted teeth. "Please do try to keep up."

"I'm sorry," she sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. "I know I'm being silly, I just can't believe that this all is happening. It's like I don't even know you." He stopped and spun around to face her.

_"I _know _you, _Mrs. Hudson," he said softly. "Martha Louise Hudson, 75 years old, five feet and 2 1/2 inches tall. Maiden name: Coleman. Born in Leicestershire, England, but moved to Florida with your now-deceased husband, Jeremy Derek Hudson. He committed a series of crimes, so despicable that I will not remind you of them. For this, I helped to ensure he was killed by electric chair. After his death you moved back to England and acquired the building of 221 Baker Street. You moved into flat A and started renting out flats B and C. In 2010, I phoned you and found that both were unoccupied. I promptly moved into 221B with Dr. John Watson, at a discounted rate due to my previous assistance to you."

Mrs. Hudson froze, her eyes going wide and glistening with unshed tears. Her chin wobbled dangerously and Sherlock prepared himself for the waterworks. Surprisingly, he didn't even mind when she dissolved into happy sobs and wrapped her frail arms around his neck. She was the closest thing to a true mother figure in his life and it felt nice to be loved. Besides, it was certainly better than John's greeting.

"Oh, _Sherlock,"_ she blubbered. "You silly boy... What were you _thinking, _leaving us like that?" He didn't try to explain, instead letting her continue to scold him. "I must have cried for months... Don't you ever do anything like that again!"

"I'm happy to say I have no plans to," he assured her. "I see myself at Baker Street for quite a long time." Mrs. Hudson pulled away from him slightly, smiling proudly up at him.

"And you've got yourself a girlfriend," she gushed. "And such a pretty woman, too. She seems very, very sweet."

"Does she?" he asked. "Then I assume you'll have no problem with her moving in downstairs." John frowned sullenly and Ainsley bit her lip.

"Honestly, we don't have to do this now-"

"Oh, I'd be delighted!" Mrs. Hudson burst out. "It'll be wonderful to have some women around. Oh, I'd better start getting it all fixed up for you! Not that I'm your housekeeper, of course. It will just be this one time." She bustled out of the room, but not before planting a firm kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "I really am so happy you're back," she squealed through her tears.

The future team of crime fighters watched her leave somewhat awkwardly. No one wanted to address the issues the new arrangement might present: namely, the strain it would put on John and Sherlock's relationship. Instead, Ainsley easily turned everyone's attention elsewhere.

"So, uh, what next?" she wondered.

"Now, you call your sister and tell her you've found a place to live. And I'll be needing about half an hour to get this hair dye out."

**A/N: Aw, Mrs. Hudson! I love her. She's just so adorable. What do you all think of this chapter? Everyone still in character? **


	5. Chapter Four

When Ainsley and Elsa were children, they would visit London quite often with their parents. Their mother would always find some excuse to go - family, or culture, or simply a holiday. Their father never needed much convincing; he loved the city too. So, despite the fact they couldn't really afford it, the Boyd family would pack their bags and prepare to spend a week bustling about their favorite vacation spot. Back then, Ainsley liked to pretend she knew the city like the back of her hand. Now, it was clear she had been gravely mistaken.

She wove through the throng of people on the streets, trying desperately to remember exactly where she'd dropped off Elsa. It seemed like there was a hotel of some sort on every corner, and like the absolute genius she was, she'd forgotten the name of the one she was looking for. Sighing, she popped into a shop and took out her phone.

"Hello?" Elsa picked up almost immediately.

"I'm lost," she announced. "There's no way I'm getting back to the hotel. Fancy a cup of coffee? I'm in some restaurant near Sherlock's."

"Um, yeah, sure. Give me the name and I'll be there in a minute."

Ainsley sighed to herself. Like always, Elsa sounded miserable. It seemed as though no matter how much time went by or how much changed her sister would always be scarred by the loss of her child. Which was understandable, of course, just... difficult to deal with. She would have given anything for things to go back to the way they used to be, when they would joke and laugh together.

Pushing away the thoughts, she glanced at the chalkboard menu for the name. When she saw it, she nearly snorted.

"It's called the Cozy Cafe," she informed her sister. "Come over whenever." She paused. "And bring as much stuff with you as you can carry," she added.

"Why?"

"Because I found a flat for us. There's no furniture or anything so we can't live there yet, but we might as well get a head start on moving in."

"Should I bring Lucinda?"

Ainsley hesitated. The hotel was pet friendly so Lucinda was fine there, but she wouldn't be comfortable alone. Besides, Sherlock said Mrs. Hudson had had a cat. Maybe she wouldn't mind taking care of Lucinda until they got a chance to move in. It would, after all, make it much easier not having to deal with a cat.

"Yeah," she answered finally. "I think she can stay at the building while we're moving in."

"Are you sure?" Elsa's concerned frown was practically audible. "Who will take care of her?"

"The landlady." Ainsley paused, debating when to tell her sister where they were moving. Despite a major improvement in their relationship, Elsa and Sherlock still didn't get along particularly well. Finally, she decided to tell her sister the truth and deal with the inevitable meltdown now. "And if she doesn't want to... Sherlock and John can probably take her."

"Sherlock and John?" Elsa repeated suspiciously. "I thought you said Lucinda was going to be staying at the building we're moving into."

"She is." Ainsley waited for Elsa's response with baited breath.

"Please tell me we're not living with him," a meek voice finally pleaded.

"We're not living with him," Ainsley reassured her. "Just... below him."

_"Ainsley," _Elsa whined.

"What? The rent's really, _really _cheap. The location's great. And you'll love the landlady! It'll be fine, I promise."

"Fine." She sounded like a petulant teenager. "I'll just do whatever you say, despite the fact that _I'm _older." Ainsley bit her lip, mentally begging herself not to rise to the bait. The last thing she needed was a fight with her sister. "I mean, why shouldn't I listen to you?" Elsa continued. "It's not like you're a criminal with no degree, or anything."

"Hey, if you want to find somewhere else to go, be my guest," Ainsley finally snapped. "Anytime you feel like getting off your arse and leaving your little pity party, go for it." The other end of the line was dead silent.

"In case you've forgotten, I lost my _baby," _Elsa breathed hollowly after a few moments. Ainsley winced.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she apologized, rubbing a hand over her face. "I'm sorry. I've been really... stressed lately, that's all. Look, how about you just come to the cafe and we can head over together, okay?"

"I think I'll meet you at the flat instead," Elsa mumbled.

"Oh. Um, yeah. Okay. The address is 221 Baker Street," Ainsley recited. She halted for a second, debating what to say next. "Else, I really am sorry."

"Whatever. I'll see you there, then."

The line went dead before she could reply.

* * *

As Ainsley jogged up the steps of 221 Baker Street for the second time that day, she carefully planned what she was going to say to her sister. It would make the most sense to apologize, but that probably wouldn't make much of a difference. Elsa was clearly plagued with some sort of deep depression; she wouldn't just forget what had happened. Even if she said everything was okay, the words would stew in her mind forever, haunting her.

"Ainsley," a clipped voice greeted her. "You're back awfully soon." She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at John's controlled tone.

"Yeah, my sister and I decided to meet here instead," she informed him politely.

"Oh, joy. I get to meet the _other _Boyd today too," he sniped. Ainsley glowered at him.

"Are you always this charming?" she wondered sarcastically.

"Only when I meet people as enchanting as you," he muttered. She curled her lip.

"Look, seeing as we met not even two hours ago, I have no idea what your problem is," she sneered. "But you'd better build a bridge, and get over it. I'm dating Sherlock, whether you like it or not. And it's _not _my fault that he left you. I didn't even _know _him when he left you. And I get why you're upset that it's not only you and him anymore, really, I do, but you don't have a monopoly on being his friend, no matter what you think. Now, you can go on acting like a child, but just know that I've been through a lot of shit recently and I'm not gonna take anymore of it from a washed out army doctor. So I recommend you grow up. Got that?" Ainsley cocked her head challengingly, daring him to fight back. Eyes smoldering with anger, John opened his mouth to reply, only to be interrupted by the opening of the front door.

"Elsa," Ainsley greeted, forcing a smile on her face. She didn't particularly want to have a confrontation with her sister, and she certainly didn't want one in front of John, so her only choice was to act like nothing happened.

"Hello," Elsa responded in a monotone. "Are you surprised I decided to _get off my arse _and come?" (Apparently she didn't share her sister's feelings about waiting to get some privacy before launching into an argument.)

"Look, I said I was sorry," Ainsley cringed.

"So?" Elsa shrugged. She crossed her arms, only to uncross them when she noticed John on the stairwell. Oddly, he was significantly quieter now that she was here and was looking rather flustered. "Is this one of our new neighbors?" she prodded.

"That is John," Ainsley answered. "You'll love him. He wants me to disappear too."

"Oh, so now _I'm _the mean one, even though this is all _your _fault?" Elsa huffed, ignoring John entirely. "That's the problem with you, Ainsley; you never take any responsibility."

"Are you _joking?" _Ainsley scoffed incredulously. "Who, exactly, did you think was taking care of you lately? Because it was me, you know."

"Yeah, after you got us kidnapped by some convict!" Tears budding in her eyes, Elsa stormed straight past Ainsley and through the door marked 221C. All the luggage she brought, including Lucinda, was left in the middle of the entryway for Ainsley to pick up.

"Lovely," she muttered to herself. "Absolutely lovely." Sighing, she reached down and hoisted a large duffel bag over her shoulder.

"Do you, um, want some help with that?" John asked, suddenly sounding timid. She frowned up at him.

"Doesn't being nice to me defeat the purpose of hating me?" she pointed out, smiling wryly. He fidgeted uncomfortably.

"I don't... _hate _you," he mumbled. She raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you?" Trying to hide his slight blush, he kneeled to help her with her things.

"No, I don't," he repeated. After a moment, he paused and looked her right in the eyes. "You're probably a perfectly good person. But I know Sherlock. I know he likes new things and has a very, very addictive personality. And I just _know _this isn't going to end well."

Ainsley nodded pensively, absorbing his words. There was probably a degree of truth to them. Sherlock had already solved her puzzle, and soon enough he'd find a shiny new toy to play with. But all relationships ran that risk, and there was an equal chance that she would be the one to get bored. So she pushed away her niggling worries and grinned.

"You may be right," she conceded. "But I have a feeling this is going to be one hell of a good time while it lasts."

**A/N: Review please! Sorry if I haven't responded to your review for the last chapter; my email's been acting weird and I'm still training my puppy and life is just extremely complicated... I still do freak out when I read your super sweet reviews, though, so keep them coming! And thank you to everyone who wished my luck with my new dog :) It means a lot!**


	6. Chapter Five

When Sherlock finally emerged from his old room, newly brown hair dripping wet, he was unsurprised to find a pensive John perched in front of a computer. Chances were he was debating how to reveal to his hoard of followers that the world's only consulting detective was alive without sounding completely mad. Plus, the blogger probably needed some time to process recent events. His average, oblivious mind was doubtlessly still struggling to understand what was going on.

"Don't say anything yet," Sherlock advised, startling John. "No one will believe you. Wait for me to be spotted and then confirm the rumors."

"What, for the blog?" John murmured. "I hadn't even thought of that yet."

"Really?" Sherlock frowned. "I would think even you would notice the obstacles in revealing my return to the world." John scoffed under his breath, rolling his eyes.

"Of course I've thought about _that," _he defended himself. "I just didn't see the point in doing anything about it on the blog."

"Why not?"

"Because, Sherlock," he sighed. "No one reads it anymore. At least, no one but reporters for crappy tabloids. I didn't have anything interesting to write about once you were dead. Or once I _thought _you were dead," he added after a moment.

Sherlock nodded and began the arduous task of reacquainting himself with 221B Baker Street. First, he yanked open every cabinet, searching desperately for at least one of his old experiments. When he found none, he started leafing through the pile of old newspapers, looking for something remotely interesting. John let him carry on in silence for a while, but soon he couldn't resist.

"What, um, did you say Ainsley's sister's name was?" he asked casually.

"Elsa," Sherlock spat. "She's insufferable." He paused. "Why?"

"Oh, ah, nothing," John shrugged. "They just, uh, had a bit of a row earlier, that's all." Sherlock growled.

"Of course they did," he muttered. "What was she whining about this time?"

"Erm, I'm not sure," John said, a little taken aback by Sherlock's obvious hatred for Elsa. "I think it was just over something Ainsley said. Elsa seemed pretty upset."

"Surprise, surprise," he sneered. "God forbid she go two days without throwing a tantrum."

"She's gone through extensive trauma," John defended her, feeling an odd need to protect Ainsley's older sister. He'd witnessed just how brutal Sherlock could be and it didn't seem fair that a grieving woman be exposed to that. "It's natural for her to be acting this way."

"Ainsley and I were there too, and we're managing to act like adults," Sherlock pointed out.

"It's _different," _John insisted. "She didn't just get knocked out; she lost a child."

"Oh, boohoo, she'd never even _met _it."

"Sherlock!" he shouted.

"What?" Sherlock scoffed. "Am I being insensitive?"

"Yeah, just a bit," John seethed.

"Oh, John. You're so ordinary it's almost painful."

"What? What have I done now that's so horrible? Felt _empathy _for someone?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"As always, you fail to see the long term benefits of this situation."

"Benefits?" John repeated. _"Benefits?" _

"Yes, benefits," Sherlock confirmed. "Ainsley and Elsa are broke; they couldn't possibly have afforded a baby. Both are unemployed and the child's father wouldn't be around to supplement their savings. The baby would simply burden them and make it even more difficult for them to get by. Now, Elsa has time to get her life back on the right track before committing to something as permanent as being a mother. So, you see, she really has no reason to be upset at all." John gaped at him, gobsmacked.

"Has it ever occurred to you that despite all that, she might have actually _wanted _the baby? You see, shocking as it may seem, some people actually enjoy things like having a family and _feeling feelings." _

"Elsa would have enjoyed at the expense of her child, then. There's no way she could provide for it adequately and it would undoubtedly have a lackluster life."

"You know, I'm starting to remember just how awful you can truly be," John laughed sardonically. "Ainsley's a saint for actually dating you."

"I take it you've changed your mind about her?" Sherlock prompted, cocking his head. John pouted.

"I still don't think she's a good idea, if that's what you're asking," he responded gruffly.

"And I still don't care," Sherlock snorted. "I'm assuming they're still downstairs?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"Excellent."

Sherlock strode out of the flat, leaving John to further contemplate the turn things had taken. It was boring just _watching _his friend, so he decided the best thing to do was to locate the one of the only other interesting people he knew: Ainsley. Confidently, he trotted over to the door marked 'C' and knocked.

In no time, a haggled Ainsley opened up. First, she looked at him almost impassively, but her eyes widened when she saw his hair. A small smile played on her lips.

"It's brown!" she noted unnecessarily, reaching up to tug at the mass of curls.

"Well-spotted," he said monotonously. She rolled her eyes.

"Would it kill you to be nice?" she sighed jokingly. Suddenly realizing they were standing in the doorway of her flat, she stepped aside to let him in.

"Where's Elsa?" he questioned.

"The bathroom," Ainsley answered, frowning slightly. "She's been in there for the past twenty minutes, throwing herself a pity party. I can't decide if I should say anything."

"Why should you?" Sherlock shrugged. "It's her own fault that she's acting like a child."

They both sat unceremoniously on the bare floor of the front room/kitchen. At the moment, there was no furniture in the flat; only bags of clothing and personal items. Absentmindedly, Sherlock remembered when he'd come across the sneakers in the very same room. It looked almost the same as it had that day, but things were so much different than they had been.

Curiously, he assessed the flat as a whole. He had never bothered to really absorb its details, but now that Ainsley was living there, he may as well have had an idea of what it was like. Overall, it was nice. Not as nice as his and John's, but he assumed part of that was because it had been abandoned for so long. There was a small mudroom when you first entered, and then came the room they were sitting in now. A door in the kitchen led to the bathroom. On either side of the fireplace was a door leading into a bedroom.

Suddenly, the bathroom door slammed open. Elsa stomped out, tears tracing her cheeks.

"Ainsley, I would just like to say that I'm sorry," she managed, jutting her chin out bravely. Ainsley raised a confused eyebrow. "You've done a lot for me, and everyone gets in a bad mood sometimes. So... Forgiven?"

"Of course," Ainsley agreed, glancing quizzically at Sherlock. "Yeah, sure. We're fine." Elsa nodded.

"Thank you," she squeaked, holding back tears. Pulling herself together, she turned to Sherlock. "Brown hair suits you," she said simply. Characteristically, he didn't respond. Elsa sighed uncomfortably. "And, um, I'm sorry to you, too." Again, Sherlock stayed quiet.

"Er, he appreciates that," Ainsley replied after a moment, filling the awkward silence. Elsa looked like she wanted to snap, but quickly regained control.

"Good. To prove it, I was thinking I could cook you all dinner. You two, John, that uh, landlady woman-"

"Mrs. Hudson," he interrupted.

"Just everyone in the building," she continued. "You know, a kind of housewarming party. Only it would have to be in your flat, since we don't have an oven or anything yet."

"It's a free country," Sherlock shrugged indifferently. "As long as you don't interrupt my experiments, you can do what you like." Ainsley squeezed his hand in thanks and Elsa forced a smile.

"Great. Well, I'll just run to the store and get some ingredients. We can do it tonight; let it be a casual thing."

"Sounds perfect," Ainsley beamed. Pleased with herself, Elsa grabbed a coat and wallet and practically pranced out the door. Ainsley spun to face Sherlock. "Thanks for doing that. I think this will be really, really good for her."

Sherlock frowned. Part of him wanted to point out that this was probably a one-off thing born out of guilt for being such a brat. But the other part of him understood Ainsley's hope. He briefly flashed back to the last time Elsa cooked for him, back when she was still pregnant. Cooking was obviously something she was passionate about, and she was quite good at it too. If she was returning to that, maybe she was slowly recovering.

**A/N: Yes, I know you all hate Elsa. Don't worry, I hate her too. But as I know her greater purpose, I can't kill her off. Sorry! Good news is, I'm going to try and make her less of a brat in coming chapters. Review please and let me know what you think!**


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